


Future, Past and Present

by Talimee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Points of View, Slice of Life, first post in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talimee/pseuds/Talimee
Summary: This was done as a birthday present for my Bestie. All the best to you!It was also done on a whim, so research time was near to non-existent - I am not on sure footing regarding this fandom so if you notice horrendous errors or erroneous horrors (sorry) drop a note please.





	1. Margaery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ithredel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithredel/gifts).



> This was done as a birthday present for my Bestie. All the best to you!
> 
> It was also done on a whim, so research time was near to non-existent - I am not on sure footing regarding this fandom so if you notice horrendous errors or erroneous horrors (sorry) drop a note please.

~*~

“But what if he doesn't like me?”

They sat in the Queen of Thorn's solar, looking out over Mander and Roseroad, over fields of roses and orchards and, further of, an army tens of thousand men strong.

“I think I have raised you better than to expect _love_ in _marriage_?”

Margaery felt the faint stirrings of a blush on her cheeks but refused to acknowledge it. _If you made mistakes, don't make them worse by acknowledging them_ , had been one of her grandmother's many teachings.

“I was not talking about love, grandmother”, she said and graced the old woman beside her with a coy smile. “But if I am to bear his children he must suffer to come near me once in a while. And if the rumours are true …” She trailed off, not wanting to fan more life into that particular myth.

“That he's a pillowbiter?” It appeared, Lady Olenna Redwyne did not share the qualms of her granddaughter. “Thank the Mother and the Maiden if it is so. Nothing is more convenient than a husband with a secret. Don't interfere with his ways, I tell you, but give him to understand that your silence comes with a price.” Olenna gestured briskly to one serving girl who brought her a crystal goblet and filled it with red wine. The sunlight filtering through the multifaceted cup made the liquid shimmer and sparkle in the most luscious shades of red. “Some men like to lay with girls half their size and as flat as a board, others prefer old women. Others again like to beat their wives or be beaten in return. All in all, I can say, that husbands are a bother and that any man who does not like to lay with women is infinitely preferable to one who does.”

Margaery could do nothing but laugh at the rosy future her grandmother was painting, and after a while Olenna chimed in with a dark chuckle.

“But you must admit, dear grandmother, that this makes it all the more troublesome to put his son into my belly.”

“Renly Baratheon may be what he is but he is no fool”, Olenna said only and took a sip from her Arbor red.

Margaery slumped back into her chair and crossed her legs, for once forgoing the strict rules of composure and poise, to think about the deeper meaning of what she knew about her future husband. For a few minutes only the lazy buzzing of flies could be heard, as the two women sat in the late summer sun, each to her own thoughts.

“He does not necessarily need an heir”, Margaery said at last. “But he will want one. Why else would he go to the trouble of winning a throne when he didn't plan to carve his family's name all over the realm?”

“And he needs a dynasty for that”, Olenna confirmed. “But what else?”

“His portrait …”

“Yes?”

“He has a great likeness to Robert, they say.”

“The spitting image I am led to believe.”

And suddenly Margaery was _certain:_ “His children will prove whether Cercei's children are Robert's or not.” She laughed at the ingenuity of it. Even if their children would be fairer in hair than the Baratheon brothers themselves, her own brown locks would ensure that they were darker than Cercei Lannister's brood. She signalled the serving girl for a cup of wine of her own and took a few careful sips. Her own children and Edric Storm and Stannis' daughter Shireen … When the time came and the Iron Throne was won for Renly they would cement his claim.

And she would be Queen.

~*~

 


	2. Lyanna

~*~

This close to Winter the stone walls of the maester's tower of Mormont Keep were breathing frost, and the fire in the hearth was barely enough to keep her ink from freezing even though it had been laid with logs as thick as a man's forearm.

„The wind is in the North-East“, Maester Robar said. „It brings the cold from beyond the Wall with it.“ The old Maester, she suspected, talked as much for the benefit of hearing his voice as for her tuition. She _knew_ the where the wind came from. She _had known_ where the wind came from even before she had known the name of her home or the name of her liege-lord. Here, on Bear Island, you watched the wind and the waves – or you met your own death sooner as you could wish for.

Lyanna slid off the high-backed chair she sat on whenever she came for Maester Robar's wisdom or council and walked over to a window. They were narrow and high up in the wall, more glazed arrow-slits than proper windows, and she wordlessly accepted the small stool the Maester placed in front of her and stepped on it to watch out over the grey and restless sea. She imagined she could hear the waves breaking on the gritty shores of her home but she could actually just hear Maester Robar's ravens one storey up and her niece and nephew romping around one storey below.

„What will you answer?“, the Maester asked when she had not moved for a while.

Lyanna crossed her arms over her chest and continued to stare out of the window. She was spared the ordeal of thinking up a polite answer when the crash of pottery could be heard from downstairs, followed by her nephew wailing.

„See to that, will you?“, she said to the Maester who vanished down the stairs in a swirl of robes and a clink of chain. Only then did she unfurl her arms. With her hands balled into fists she stood for a moment before giving the wall a good kick and returned to the desk and the outrageous demand lying on top of it.

 _Who does this southerner think he is?!_ , she ranted again in her mind. _Sending a letter with not so much a plea for help but a demand for fealty?!_ Did he not understand the situation he was in? Lord Snow might humour this ragtag king and his mad priestess in his halls and even give him a few empty castles for hiding in, but that was the  Night's Watch – and the rules of liege-lords and fealty did not apply to them. Soon Winter would come in earnest and the only rule applicable _then_ was the survival of the strongest and best prepared.

Stannis Baratheon was neither.

And yet, here he was, bold as brass, demanding provisions and land and men to fight for him in the South and win back the Iron Throne from a family of twisted monsters and their incestuous bastard. Or so he claimed.

 _Southron Lords, southron lies_ , her mother had said often enough and she had had the right of it. What did it matter if one snake called another a liar? If Stannis Baratheon survived the Winter he was welcome to any throne in the South that he chose – it was Bear Island that mattered to her, it was the North that mattered to her. The ties between the Mormonts and the Starks were a thousand years old, forged and reforged by ice and blood, an allegiance sunk deep into the very earth their homes stood upon. It was something a Northerner would never question, it was something a Southerner would never understand. Dacey Mormont and Robb Stark had been the latest blood-price to pay for that bond but their lives would not be spent in vain.

Climbing back into her chair, she reached over the desk for parchment and ink. She gripped her quill and with a bold, childish hand she wrote her answer.

~*~

 


	3. Tyrion

~*~

It came as no surprise to Tyrion Lannister that he missed the Great Pyramid of Meereen. After all, it had been his home for a considerable amount of time. A _comfortable_ home, where people catered to his needs and where his council was precious in the eyes of the people he had come to call his friends. Those he missed the most, he suspected, even if his cynic little mind liked to point out the warmer climate and her Grace's excellent vintages, too.

Winter warfare in Westeros just couldn't compare.

The dull flap of canvas announced a visitor who was followed by a cold gust of air that made the candles flicker and ruffled the multitude of maps Tyrion had lying on his desk. Only a hastily placed jug of red kept the parchments from tumbling to the floor.

“Close the damn flap behind you, will you?” he barked and could barely stop himself from adding “Pod” to the order. The squire his father had foisted on him had been lost somewhere in the upheaval after Joffrey's wedding but Tyrion could have sworn that his new one was Pod's identical twin regarding awkward speech and gangly limbs. He heard the lad double back to fasten the tent-door again and looked up from the plans he was studying.

“What is it?” he asked brisk but not unkindly. It wouldn't do to snap at people he needed but he also needed to find a way to get Daenery's Gift, baggage trains containing food and fat to sustain the smallfolk in the Riverlands and the North, well, up north and spread around. He was sure they were on the Kingsroad somewhere between Harrenhal and Lord Harroway's Town, where Kingsroad, Riverroad and High Road met. Only, whenever he stepped outside his tent to take a piss, he could not see the Kingsroad at all. In fact, he could not see _anything_ in the wastes of snow the Riverlands had become.

“A raven from King's Landing, my lord.”

Pod, the Second, nearly fell over his large feet in his haste to deliver the small scroll into Tyrion's hands and afterwards stayed there in front of his desk, waiting for new orders and _fidgeting_. It made Tyrion's skin crawl and his fingers itch.

“Pod”, he said in slightly exaggerated vexation, “why don't go and see if you can scrounge a cup of mulled wine for me and one for yourself? And some cheese.” With an eager nod the boy practically ran from the tent and Tyrion could not suppress the hopes that Quartermaster Emeric would not only rustle up some wine but also some work for the boy and keep him out of Tyrion's hair for an hour at least.

“Now, what do we have here …” he said under his breath and unrolled the slip of parchment. For a moment he was still, reading and deciphering what Varys had to report from King's Landing, before he laid the note on his desk. It sprang instantly back into a small roll, concealing its message once more but the apparently random letters, numbers and signs still danced in front of Tyrion's inner eye.

The war had begun for real. Scryers, Far-seers, raven masters and spies alike had reported that a large army of Others and an even larger army of their wights had marched on the wall, bringing with them an unnatural cold that seemed to impervious to fire.

And he was stuck here. Granted, the Battle of Blackwater Bay had curbed his lust for battle considerably and _that_ had not been large to begin with, but he loathed sitting here, in the middle of the ravaged wastes the War of the Five Kings had created, and do nothing but wait. His fertile mind couldn't stop envisioning scenario upon scenario, White Walkers climbing the wall, catapults firing burning oil into the Ancient Forest, setting it ablaze but still the Others were coming. An endless tide, riding on the Longest Night to Come.

What good could he do here?, he asked himself bitterly. He was a dwarf with a quick mind but slow legs – what good could he do at the Wall? His restless eyes found the dark alcove where his bed stood and, on a small table next to it, the Cyvasse-board Varys had given him the day before he left King's Landing. Snatching up the little parchment-scroll, Tyrion waddled over to the table and spent a good few minutes staring at the tiles and figures arranged upon it. He had placed the grey tiles representing mountains way down at the edge of the board, the aquamarine ones, representing water, were at the right, other tiles, green now because he had ran out of grey were carefully lining the left side of the board. He threw a quick look into Varys' note and moved a few of his game pieces (he played black, of course). All of them – Spearmen, Crossbowmen, Light and Heavy Infantry, Trebuchets … they were all on the southern end of the board, placed along the wall of grey he had erected there. They were so few in comparison to his enemy's pieces which filled up the rest of the board. A sea of white. A lone black piece stood in front of all the others. His king, but for this particular match it was his queen. His gnarled fingers deftly set three more black pieces on the board.

His Queen had dragons.

~*~

 


End file.
